International Bummer Day
Many moons ago, I was closely associated with International Surfing Day. I was employed by the publication that "invented" it along with the Surfrider Foundation way back when, and it started harmlessly enough — a day to go surf and clean the beach.
It was likely spawned during one of those flurries that lead us to things like International Shower with a Friend Day (February 5, real, about water conservation) and National Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Day (August 8, also real, having to do with gardeners' zucchini surplus). But the beaches got cleaned and we usually just rallied to have barbecues and we surfed. There was one instance where I really tried to do something special, though.
I think it was the second year of ISD and the first in which there was a big south swell forecast. I asked my boss where I should surf before we convened at San O for a company BBQ and beach cleanup. He suggested a marine base accessible only by boat, military pass, or long and somewhat treacherous paddle.
"Grab a longboard and paddle in,” he said. “Just tow your shortboard behind you.” Rad, sounds core. I'm in.
I didn't have a longboard, though. But I did work at a surf magazine, and on the wall were two 9'0" guns displayed. One was Brock Little's and one was Mark Healey's. Both were iconic boards with loud airbrushes.
By then I had recruited our art director Scott Chenoweth to join me on my International Surfing Day dawn patrol adventure. We got the go-ahead from the bosses on using the boards (or they at least said they'd look the other way)—channeling Brock and Healey's likely sentiment that they'd be better off used than simply left to wall hang forever. I recognized both boards for some of their heroics in giant surf, so it was a little embarrassing to be using them for anything less than paddling into Mavs or Waimea. But we charged it anyway.
The next morning we woke at 4 a.m. and drove to the harbor with our guns in the bed of the truck. We paddled out in the dark, aiming for the marine base — a pretty damn far paddle around a huge breakwall. I paddled the Brock board and it was super slick because it hadn't been waxed in years and I didn't want to leave any marks on it, so I didn't put any wax on. I wasn't planning on coming in contact with any waves though so should be fine. My brand new Channel Islands Proton trailed behind on my leash. We felt like astronauts pioneering in the name of International Surfing Day!
The paddle was going well enough. We paralleled the massive breakwall with visions of spitting peaks, chin on the deck stroking ahead. The swell was really solid and we had the butterflies of a couple dudes really doin' it! We were gonna score for ISD.
Then it appeared on the horizon. A rogue set that actually looked like it was gonna break right on our heads. Aren't breakwalls supposed to stop this sort of thing? Next thing I know I have no choice but to turtle roll Brock Little's board beneath 10 feet of whitewater.
The board is immediately ripped from my hands and washed toward the breakwall. Oh God. Scott suffered the same fate and two famous guns that were basically sitting in the hall of fame on the wall at the mag 12 hours ago were now hurtling toward a rock jetty in Oceanside. Tragic.
Both boards were dashed up on the rocks in dramatic fashion. And the rescue mission was significantly more dangerous than I would have liked it to be with the massive swell running. But we had to save these boards. Both of us managed to get them off the rocks and let out hoots once we had secured them with relatively minor damage, all things considered. Scott had lost a fin off the Healey board and there was a big puncture wound in Brock's, but they still paddled. I had Solarez. We'd figure it out. We kept going. Dang, that was gnarly.
We finally arrived on the shore like 40 minutes later and watched pumping peaks spit. We did as we were told and sneakily stashed the guns on the beach out of sight from the marines and went to paddle out into pumping beach break. Devout ISD missionaries. As I waded into the water and jumped on my board, something felt weird. I flipped my board over and my entire fin was shredded and ripped off the board. Gone. Just a sheet of glass hanging. Damn. Was the side fin too, couldn’t even attempt to ride it. What a bummer.
I couldn't surf it at all. I went and grabbed the Brock board and started my sad paddle back to Oceanside, tail absolutely between my legs, whimpering. A massive bull seal decided to escort me back for the entire solo paddle back, threatening me on several occasions.
I drove back to my house, grabbed another board, paddled out into shitty, crowded closeouts in Oceanside and caught my three and called it a day. Bah humbug.
This elaborate dance I did to surf on ISD is nothing compared to what I will go through tomorrow morning to celebrate. I will rile the family awake, whip up pancakes, make eggs, watch cartoons, do some yard work, then load up sand toys, chairs, water, coffee, a lunch, a snack, and many other accouterments needed to occupy a two-year-old and a wife while I attempt to wiggle on three shitty beachbreak windswell waves crumbled by south wind under June gloom skies.
The lengths I continue to go. And always will to surf. Regardless of whether or not it's International Surfing Day. But since tomorrow is, Happy ISD, to those who celebrate. —Travis Ferré
